


The Urge to Write Poetry

by wesleysgirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-19
Updated: 2011-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-21 13:05:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleysgirl/pseuds/wesleysgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s just an average day until John Watson opens the bathroom door and sees Sherlock Holmes naked at the sink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Urge to Write Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Maggie_Conagher for the brilliant beta.

It’s just an average day until John Watson opens the bathroom door and sees Sherlock Holmes naked at the sink, cock only semi-obscured by a thick layer of shaving cream and the razor in his hand.

“God,” John says, and closes the door again. “Sorry! Sorry. I thought you were brushing your teeth.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, which leaves John to think he’s embarrassed. It turns out to be wrong, though -- clearly, Sherlock is almost never embarrassed about anything, even having his flatmate walk in on him when he’s in the process of shaving his balls. He comes out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later -- dressed, thank _Christ_ \-- and announces, “There. All done.”

“I don’t want to know,” John tells him, and goes into the bathroom only to come storming out a moment later. “The sink,” he says, trying to remain calm, “is clogged.”

“Mm, yes, pubic hair seems to cause that. I wonder how people avoid it normally?” Sherlock is at his laptop typing away.

John can’t even begin to explain how many things are wrong with that question. He sighs. “Have we got a plunger?”

“A what?” Sherlock doesn’t look away from the screen.

“A plunger. You know, it’s for -- oh, never mind.” John goes to ask Mrs. Hudson for the loan of one.

He focuses only on clearing the drain, and nothing else.

~ * ~ * ~

It isn’t until the next night that he notices Sherlock’s discomfort. They’re both sitting, John with a book and Sherlock with a pile of them that he keeps shifting about, when he realizes Sherlock keeps twitching in his seat in a way that has nothing to do with books.

“All right?” John asks, and Sherlock gives him an impatient look.

“Yes, of course. Fine.”

But less than a minute later he’s twitching again, and even though John can only see it in his peripheral vision it makes concentrating on his book nearly impossible. “Sherlock.”

“John.” Sherlock has this ability to say his name in the most flat, least amused tone _ever_ , and it’s so irritating John finds himself gritting his teeth.

“What is going on with you?” A thought strikes John, and he’s up and checking Sherlock’s forearms for nicotine patches.

Sherlock pulls his arm away irritably. “What’s going on with _you_? You’re insufferable as well as empty-headed. I _itch_ , all right? Do we have to talk about it?”

“Oh.” God, he should have realized. Sherlock’s just shaved the hair off the most sensitive place on his body, and probably nicked his skin in half a dozen spots while he was at it. Of course he itches. “Right.”

John goes back to his chair and tries to read, but Sherlock is driving him mad with all the shifting and eventually he decides to call it a night.

He hesitates at the foot of the stairs. “There’s some Lanacane in the bathroom cupboard,” he says. “In case you... well. Good night.”

In the middle of the night -- it’s dark, the only light in the room the thin beam that escapes around the edge of the window shade -- John comes suddenly awake. He looks at the clock and finds it’s two in the morning. He doesn’t know what woke him, so he listens, and after a moment the sounds resolve themselves into Sherlock running water in the bathroom.

John gets up slowly and pulls on his robe before stumbling down the stairs. The bathroom door is open so he stops before the point where he can see round the frame and says, “Sherlock?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says sharply. “Go back to bed.”

“Right. You don’t, um, sound fine.” Half asleep as he is, John isn’t sure if this is Sherlock distracted or Sherlock attempting to distract. He hovers where he is, unable to see into the bathroom but unconvinced that he should go back upstairs. “Can I help?”

Sherlock laughs without sounding amused. “No, John, I don’t think so.”

“Well, what’s wrong?”

“It’s hot and I’ve got a rash,” Sherlock says peevishly. “Nothing helps. I’ve tried baking soda and that cream you suggested, but it won’t stop.”

“Right,” John says, taking a deep breath. “Let me take a look, all right?”

“After your reaction yesterday when you walked in on me? No, thank you. John!” This last is when John, ignoring Sherlock’s protest, turns the corner.

As expected, Sherlock is naked, or near enough -- his chest is bare and his pants are down around his ankles. He’s holding a damp flannel that by the look of the skin of his thighs and lower abdomen he’s been using to scrub at his recently shaved genital area, which he’s now grabbing a towel to try to hide.

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock, I’m a medical professional.”

“And I’m your flat mate.” But Sherlock reluctantly sets the towel down so John can see.

Sherlock’s skin is a bright, angry red, and in places drops of blood are welling up. “First off, you’ve got to stop scratching,” John says.

“It _itches_ ,” Sherlock says, as if this is a perfectly reasonable response.

“Well, now it’s getting infected. We’re going to have to clean it.”

Sherlock backs up half a step. “What with?”

“Water,” John tells him, turning to the tub and starting the water running. “And this other modern invention, you may have heard of it? It’s called soap.”

“It’s not as if I shaved with a rusty straight razor,” Sherlock complains, kicking off his pants so they skid into the corner of the bathroom where John knows they’ll sit for at least a week. “This is the 21st century! I used shaving foam!”

“Right, well. You’ll have a soak, that will help.” John is just about to instruct Sherlock to follow the hot bath with some hydrogen peroxide and a thin layer of antibiotic salve when he realizes as soon as he leaves Sherlock will go back to scratching until septicaemia sets in. “Why did you shave it in the first place?”

“You said you didn’t want to know.” Sherlock seems uncaring of the fact that he’s now stark naked.

“That was when I thought I could pretend it hadn’t happened,” John says frankly.

“Yes, I suppose that possibility has gone by the way side,” Sherlock says, as casually as if he’s considering whether to have jam or peanut butter on his morning toast. “Under the circumstances.”

John adjusts the temperature of the water running into the bath. “So, what was it this time, then? Are you measuring the rate at which pubic hair grows back? Checking to see if it comes back thicker or thinner or straighter or curlier?”

“Well, I _hope_ it doesn’t come back straight,” Sherlock says haughtily, and John gives him a startled look. “All of my hair curls.”

“Obviously,” John says. For a moment there, he’d thought Sherlock was trying to tell him something. “All right. Get in.”

Sherlock eases himself into the tub, complaining about the temperature of the water.

“It has to be hot,” John says. “Once you’re used to it, we’ll make it even hotter.”

“Why?”

“It helps with the itch.”

“Yes, but _why_?”

John grins. “I’ve no idea -- I just know it works. Did it myself once.”

“Not because you’d shaved, I suppose,” Sherlock says. He’s a grown man sitting in a tub of water, sulking.

“No.”

“Have you, ever?” Sherlock looks curious, and a curious Sherlock is far preferable to a sullen one.

“No, and I hardly think you’re a walking advertisement for it.” John tilts his head to one side and studies Sherlock’s face. “Is it helping at all?”

“Maybe a bit.” Sighing, Sherlock leans back, which makes it more difficult to avoid looking at his prick bobbing in the water. Is he hard? “You really can go back to bed, you know.”

John shakes his head. “I’m awake now. Might as well keep you company.” Yes, Sherlock’s prick is definitely erect now. He can’t help but wonder what it would feel like in his hand, what sorts of sounds Sherlock would make if he were to stroke it.

He glances up and finds that Sherlock is watching him. His face flushes warm and he looks away.

“John,” Sherlock says.

It’s slow and warm, his name falling from Sherlock’s lips, and if John weren’t already hard the sound of it would have made him so. But that can’t be Sherlock’s intention, can it?

Sherlock lifts a hand from where it’s resting on the edge of the bath, and after a second’s hesitation John reaches out and takes it. “Thank you,” Sherlock says. “I know I don’t. Say it. Often. But I do appreciate your assistance.”

John clears his throat. “Was there... something else you needed?” he asks, as Sherlock drags his hand beneath the surface of the water. It’s hot, but not painfully so. Still, he barely notices -- he’s too focused on Sherlock’s erect cock less than an inch from his fingertips.

“It really is unbearably itchy,” Sherlock says. His voice is deep and gravelly and John, never one to refuse an opportunity to leap, slips his hand lower in the water and rubs his knuckles against Sherlock’s balls.

He knows what it feels like to have an itch that won’t quit, that’s crawled under your skin and settled itself in for the long haul, but he’d be lying if he said his actions have anything to do with sympathy. No, this is entirely selfish. It’s a chance to indulge in the fantasy of Sherlock Holmes, to touch the man who’d claim he has no need to be touched.

Sherlock’s skin is rough like sandpaper, but the water is softening it. When John’s fingertips rub -- firmly enough to provide relief, but not hard enough to cause damage -- the crease between thigh and groin, Sherlock groans and his head tips back. “God,” he breathes, and that’s more than enough encouragement as far as John is concerned.

There’s an uneven, meandering line that differentiates the shaved skin from the skin still covered with fine, dark hair. It wouldn’t be quite so dark if it weren’t wet, of course. John hopes there will be a time he’ll be able to make a proper comparison. For now, though, he explores the line with gentle touches and watches Sherlock’s lips. They tighten and relax, tighten and relax, depending on where John’s fingers brush.

Sherlock’s mouth is beautiful.

Actually, there’s very little about Sherlock that isn’t beautiful, and John has spent more hours than he ought to have carefully dissecting many of Sherlock’s most attractive features. He hasn’t had a chance, until now, to include Sherlock’s prick among them.

“Feel good?” he asks, surprised to hear how rough his voice is.

“God, yes.” Sherlock’s eyelids flutter closed. “Don’t stop.”

John rubs the pad of his thumb against the soft ridge of skin just underneath the head of Sherlock’s prick. Sherlock inhales, sharp and uneven, and his hips lift.

“Please,” Sherlock whispers, and John can’t bear it any longer.

“Right,” he says. “Either you get out of the bath or I’m getting in. Your choice.”   
Sherlock opens his eyes. His lips are completely unsmiling, but somehow he manages to smile without his mouth. “I was told to have a soak. Doctor’s orders. You wouldn’t want me to disobey my doctor, would you, John?”

Swiftly, John rips off his own clothes and climbs into the tub with Sherlock. It’s incredibly awkward -- there are far more than four knees, and elbows that seem capable of finding tender spots all on their own, and there isn’t nearly enough space for two.

“Careful,” John says. “Here, just --”

“Well, if you were a bit more coordinated --”

“Can’t you --”

“ _Oh_ ,” Sherlock says, as John straddles his lap, one knee on either side of his hips. “Yes, like that. Is it --?”

“It’s _perfect_ ,” John says. It is, even though it’s still awkward. He’s finally in a position to kiss Sherlock, for one, plus there’s the delicious friction of Sherlock’s prick against his own. It’s so good that he can’t stay still, has to shift and move as water laps over the edge of the tub onto the floor.

Sherlock moans into John’s mouth. John can feel him trembling and wonders, not for the first time, how experienced Sherlock is. Or isn’t. Sherlock kisses as if he hasn’t a clue what he’s doing, not that it matters. He’s a quick learner, though, and follows where John leads.

“You taste of wintergreen,” Sherlock mutters, obligingly letting John tilt his head, both hands threaded through Sherlock’s ridiculous, glorious hair.

John kisses him three more times before deciding not to explain, since Sherlock must know that it’s the flavor of his toothpaste. He shifts backward an inch and Sherlock follows him, rubbing his hard prick against John’s until John is sure Sherlock’s going to come, has to. He wants to feel it, the throb of Sherlock, the slick heat. God, he wants to _fuck_ Sherlock.

Sherlock leans in closer, lifting John’s knees off the floor of the tub for a fraction of an instant. John loses his balance, yelps, and grabs onto the rim of the bath to steady himself. Sherlock whimpers and John thinks that he’s hurt himself, but then Sherlock’s teeth bite down on John’s shoulder. Sherlock is coming, just like that, each shock of pleasure forcing a muffled grunt from him and an answering gasp from John who can feel every twitch against his own cock.

He’s experienced enough to know how to bring himself off without much effort, and the reality of Sherlock in his arms is so much better than the fantasy’s ever been that all he has to do is concentrate on the feel of Sherlock’s stomach against the head of his prick. He comes fast and hard, shuddering and cursing a bit under his breath.

“You were right,” Sherlock says, one hand on John’s lower back as he nuzzles John’s chest.

“What about?” John waits for his heart to slow.

Sherlock licks the line of John’s collar bone, tracing it with his tongue. “This. Helping.”

“Always willing to help you scratch an itch,” John says, and grins.

“Mm. You could have said something sooner,” Sherlock tells him. He shifts underneath John and John hears the sound of the water beginning to drain from the tub.

“You told me you were married to your work,” John points out. “I didn’t know that meant you’d be willing to cheat on it now and then.”

Sherlock shrugs. “It isn’t always faithful to me, either. God, it’s starting again.” He reaches to scratch, and John heaves himself upright with care and steps out of the tub.

“Come on, then. I’ll give you an antihistamine and see if I’ve got anything else we can put on it -- you ought to get some sleep, at least.” He holds a hand toward Sherlock, who ignores it and stands up on his own.

“I’m not an _invalid_ ,” Sherlock says with dignity, and John has to fight the urge to laugh as he passes Sherlock a towel.

John wraps a second towel around his own waist and turns to the doorway. “I’ll get my medical kit. Come along when you’re ready.”

“John,” Sherlock says, and John stops and looks back at him.

“Yeah?”

“Did you want to know why I did it?”

“Shaved, you mean?” John rubs his jaw, feeling the same sandpaper effect there that he felt on Sherlock. Now that he thinks about it, he’s not sure he _does_ want to know, but there’s no possible way to say that. “Yes. Why?”

“I wanted to see if it was true that one’s genitals would appear larger.” Sherlock smiles a bit.

“Rather subjective, don’t you think?” John asks. “Not to mention difficult to compare.”

“Not at all,” Sherlock says. He scrubs the towel he’s holding across his lower abdomen and his prick bobs with the movement.

John frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I took digital photographs,” Sherlock says, and John feels his eyes widen.

“Really,” he says. “I think I might need to see those. For research purposes, of course.”

“Of course,” Sherlock agrees. “I’ll bring my laptop to your room, shall I?”

“Brilliant,” John says, and when he goes back up the staircase he’s grinning.

 

>   
> _The urge to write poetry is like having an itch. When the itch becomes annoying enough, you scratch it._ \- Robert Penn Warren


End file.
